In Another Time
by dangerousdame
Summary: His marriage and life in ruins, the broken Raoul de Chagny finds himself in another world- a world where Christine is faithful, he never took up drink or gambling, and their child is clearly his own. Is this world a dream, or realer than the one he knows?
1. Chapter 1

When the curtain rose, everything changed.

Raoul knew without a moment's doubt that he had lost the bet. There she was, singing on the stage without a moment's hesitation or glance toward him. Very well, then; let the Phantom keep her, if that was what they both desired. Let them keep Gustave, the child he had always mistreated. He turned away, not with anger or jealousy, but with regret for what might have been.

In his despair, Raoul had already started walking away when he realized the song she was singing was from _La boheme_. Even at the height of his arrogance, the Phantom never claimed to have written Puccini's operas. What was Christine doing? Was she trying to find a way to make both her husband and her lover lose their bet? It would serve the both of them right, Raoul acknowledged wryly. The bet had been a cruel usage of her- but why was the orchestra going along with her choice of song?

Christine was stunningly beautiful on stage, the loveliest he had seen her in a long time. The difference was subtle, but undeniable- she was actually happy. How long had it been since he saw a genuine smile on her face? The sight was mad, but he didn't want it to end. He had once sworn to make her happy, to devote his life to making her smile; it seemed ages ago, but somehow, someone or something had done the job for him. He squinted into the darkness across the stage, but no sign of the Phantom lurked in the wing. He could have gone anywhere, though; in a theater of his design, there would naturally be secret passages unseen to the normal human eye.

His theater. Now that he looked more closely, the theater didn't resemble what he'd seen only a moment ago. Even the audience didn't look like a Coney Island vaudeville crowd, but for all the world as if they had dressed in their finest and gone to see an opera. By the time Christine finished her aria and exited the stage to massive applause, Raoul was in such a haze of confusion that he thought nothing could surprise him.

When his wife kissed him passionately backstage, he found that he'd been wrong.

"Oh Raoul! They loved it! I know we've had good luck with gala performances in the past, but here at the Metropolitan! I felt so nervous."

She threw her arms around him, almost knocking him over with the force of her embrace.

"They shouldn't have let you watch from the wings, but I'm glad they did. You always did say that boxes didn't allow you a good enough view of your wife!"

Raoul opened his mouth in mute astonishment. There was nothing he could say in response, nothing at all.

"Darling? Are you quite yourself tonight?"

"No," he managed. "I don't think I am..."


	2. Chapter 2

It was all _wrong_. Everything. Even the way they were greeted after the performance rang false, with only accolades and no questions about scandal or gambling debts. Christine clung to his arm unashamedly, girlish in her excitement despite her age. Had he ever seen her so unreservedly happy, even in the best of times? She'd been fearful of discovery during their early courtship, and so melancholy after their wedding. Now he could swear she was the same girl he'd once played with by the sea, unaware of any difference in rank or judgement from the outside world.

For his own part Raoul was silent until they'd begun the ride home.

"Christine..." What? What could he ask her? What could he say that wouldn't sound insane? "You were wonderful."

"Oh, Raoul. It's all thanks to you!"

"Thanks to me?"

"You've been the best agent any singer could have, as you well know. I don't know where I'd be without your help."

Was she playing a cruel trick on him? No; even in their worst moments, he didn't believe she would deliberately hurt him so. He was dreaming, or else truly had gone insane. He was imagining the world as it should be- or perhaps the last ten years of his marriage had simply been a nightmare. No explanation made any amount of sense.

Christine chattered on, occasionally giving him a quizzical look. Raoul mumbled something about feeling light-headed, not wanting to distress her. He would have to eventually, but if she was happy with him now, he would let it last as long as it could.

"My love- your hand!"

Raoul glanced down. Christine was pointing to a scar on the back of his palm; he'd had it for years, the result of a barroom brawl. Christine should have seen it before- but if nothing else made sense about the night, why should this be any different?

"It's nothing. Please don't worry about it." Christine didn't seem entirely reassured, but she didn't question him further. Instead, she changed the subject of conversation.

"I'm so glad we were able to come here. Marguerite has enjoyed it so much!"

"Marguerite?"

"Yes. The governess nearly had to force her to go to sleep tonight. So like her father, more eager than is good for her. I worry sometimes that you spoil her!"

A child. Why was there no mention of Gustave? And that name, Marguerite-

"Named for Meg," he found himself saying aloud.

"The Baroness, you mean! Her mother will keep insisting she use her full title in correspondence with anyone, even old friends. But then, she does write us so frequently- first thing when we go back to France, we must pay a call on her."

Raoul was grateful to arrive at the hotel; he didn't think he could take much more confusion in close quarters. Christine's chatter died down as they went to the penthouse, and he could see her studying him intently. Perhaps she was noticing more changes, scars and bruises she did not recognize. He realized as well that he'd been underdressed for the occasion, hardly looking like a well-kept nobleman should. What could he say to reassure her when he himself could offer no explanation?

Christine's silence continued until they reached the bedroom. Raoul wondered what to do; taking her to bed would feel deceitful, tricking her into thinking things were as they should be. Then again avoiding her might only distress her further.

Fortunately, Christine spoke before he had to decide.

"You have foreign scars, you avoid speaking to anyone but me, you stare at my face as if you hadn't seen it in a decade, and you don't recognize the name of our own child. Perhaps you're having a bad night."

Christine's voice grew cold.

"Or perhaps you aren't my husband. I know of only one man who could deceive me so completely, a man who had been working on crafting a mask that would make him look like another."

Raoul turned to face her, and once again her expression was foreign to him- one of pure, unhidden fury.

"Phantom. _What have you done with Raoul_?"


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Thank you to Mominator 124 for correcting me about nobility! I've edited the last chapter to fix my mistake- that'll teach me to only skim my research._

All that Raoul had felt for Christine in ten years amounted to a confusing mess. Love, then neglect, then bitterness, then jealousy, and now utter bewilderment had been added to the mixture. With such feelings beneath the surface, there was only one thing Raoul could manage.

A short, stunned laugh.

"Where is he?" Christine demanded again. "I won't be fooled by you this time!"

"The Phantom? Really?" Nothing left to lose, Raoul grabbed his wife's hand- or the hand of his wife's imposter, whomever it was. She wrenched it from his grasp, and seemed about to scream when Raoul continued to speak. "A mask that could fool the world? If he could make that, he wouldn't be a recluse in Coney Island with the same mask he wore ten years ago!"

Christine apparently had no response for that except to look at him as if he was mad.

"Go on!" Raoul said. "Feel for any sign of a mask! Or do you think the Phantom so brilliant he can mold an entire body out of another man's skin?"

She reached up to his jawline and traced her fingers from his neck to his temple. When she could find no sign of any artifice, she looked him in the eye, clearly fighting back tears.

"Who are you, then? You're not my husband. You can't be! I knew something was wrong the moment I walked off that stage, and your scars! Your memory! Even your voice is different than his! I can't have lost my mind, not after the nightmares-"

She abruptly stopped, and without even thinking Raoul moved to take her in his arms. For that moment, all he knew was that the woman he loved was unhappy and frightened, and all he wanted was to tell her everything would be alright.

But of course it wouldn't, not when he didn't even know the very life he was living. She jerked away from him, and his frustration returned.

"I could ask you the same question. You look like Christine, your voice is as lovely as it ever was, but you can't be the woman I married. For god's sake, you rushed from the stage to embrace me! You have a daughter named after a rival! You live in a fashion I could never afford, and you spoke to me as if we had no cares in the world! Where is Gustave?"

Christine opened and closed her mouth without saying anything.

"My father has been dead since I was a young girl," she said at last. "You know that."

With such desperation in her eyes, Raoul could not bring himself to rail at her. A drink would help- no, a drink in these circumstances would only serve to confuse things more.

"One thing at a time. We'll understand this if we start at the beginning. You noticed something wrong when you left the stage?"

"Yes. You- my husband usually greets me with warmth. You acted as if you hardly knew me."

"Before then- are you sure nothing strange happened before then?"

Christine reflected for a second.

"You were in the wings when the curtain rose. You'd been in your seat earlier- I saw you. You couldn't have reached the stage in such a short time."

"No, I couldn't have. And when the curtain rose, you were wearing a different dress than I'd seen. The song you sang was wrong, and you greeted me as if we were newlyweds."

Both stood silent. Then, Raoul pulled out a chair and Christine went for the door.

"I'll have some brandy brought to our room" she said.

"None for me"

"For me, then. I think we have a long night of explanations ahead of us."


	4. Chapter 4

An hour had passed, and cups stood empty next to a half-filled bottle (despite his earlier vow, Raoul had taken his drink when the paradox became too much to bear.) Still the two had little idea what had happened. All they could pinpoint was the moment things had changed; the curtain rose on Christine (whether at the Metropolitan or Coney Island) and Raoul had stepped out of place.

What more was there to say?

"We're neglecting an important topic," Christine said. She held her liquor well, but her voice was lower and softer than usual. "You look like my husband and I look like your wife, correct?"

Raoul nodded his assent.

"But we're not. Things are wrong. We're different people, but how different? You know about the Phantom, but not about our daughter. Did you still save me- her- from him?"

"I thought I did." When Christine gave him a quizzical look, he shrugged. "I suppose it was she who saved me from him with a kiss, though. Did you do that?"

"I did. And we married soon after."

"When all the trouble started. We should have called it off on the wedding night!"

This time there was no look of recognition in Christine's eyes. Raoul wanted to apologize, despite meaning what he'd said. Why should he care if his view of his marriage offended a woman who wasn't even his wife? But the hurt he saw still stung, and he cast his eyes downward, not sure how to rectify the situation.

"It seems," said Christine slowly, "that we might have found where the difference started."

"So what do you want to do? Try to summarize ten long years and hope that answers everything?"

"Unless you have a better suggestion."

Raoul looked back up at her. The hurt was gone, but he felt as he often did around Christine- ashamed. For his failure to provide for her, to make her happy, to raise their son properly- nothing was ever good enough. And now she (or her double) didn't know, and wanted him to acquaint her with those failures?

"I don't...I'm sorry. I don't know if I can."

"Then I will. Perhaps it will be easier once we've started." Christine bit her lip, searching for words, and despite what she'd said Raoul doubted she could accomplish her task. Who could tell all of ten years so that it would make sense, and who would want to reveal so much to a man who was, once you came down to it, a virtual stranger? But then, with a deep breath, Christine began to talk.


	5. Christine's Narrative

_ Christine's__ Narrative_

I suppose there is only one place to begin- the opera house, on that terrible night. Perhaps I don't need to tell you that they never found the Phantom, or the number of casualties- poor Piangi, the patrons trampled in the rush. You- my husband, that is- anyway, Raoul emerged from that night as something of a popular romantic hero, with my rescue being the only positive the press could find in the story. Hiding from them was a trial, as was dealing with the elder de Chagnys when they learned their son was to marry a commoner.

He was cut off (though not fully disinherited, we would later learn) and our wedding was modest by necessity. But though I worried I had ruined the life of my savior, he was ever resourceful. The opera had been burned down, but its talent remained; certainly the Girys, who had risked so much for us, deserved our partnership in return. Raoul used his connections to promote Meg's career, and through his fee as an agent we were able to live comfortably, if not lavishly.

But my own career- well, he wanted to help me as well. He loved to hear me sing, and it pained me to refuse him. But refuse him I did, for some time. You asked me before about my anger towards the Phantom, and it is true that I forgave him. He was a sad, lonely man treated cruelly by fate, and if he still lives I can only pray he has found peace. But forgiving him didn't stop the nightmares...over and over I dreamed of my husband murdered, of that man's hands upon me, of dark dungeons and the sound of screaming. As a man I forgave him, but as the Phantom he continued to plague me.

In a way, though, those horrible nights brought some comfort- for all my worries about being a burden to Raoul, he was there to hold me every time I woke up shaking. He would reassure me that he was watching over me, and that I possessed more strength and bravery than I knew. At times it could provoke his anger, but never at me; I should not have to suffer so, he would say, when I had committed no crime. If only he could do more, if only he knew of a doctor we could trust- but simply being by my side and loving me was what got me through those dark nights.

I had little Marguerite within the first year, and she changed everything. She had her father's eyes and determined disposition; just as she was a joy to have, she was such a trial to look after that I scarcely had time to think of ghosts! Her early childhood was one of the best times in my life- my in-laws began the slow process of reconciling with us, Meg was the toast of the town artists, and my husband's devotion as a father made me fall in love with him all over again. I barely gave a thought to taking up my career again- I'd known enough divas whose voice and resonance were never the same after a child. And so, with opera being the least of my concerns, it felt safe to sing.

Once we had a governess to watch our daughter during the day, Raoul encouraged me to take lessons again. My voice had not changed as much as I feared, and with enough practice I knew I could perform. A few critics and directors still remembered me fondly, and my husband was as good an agent for me as he had been for my best friend.

What else can I tell about life since then? Marguerite has grown into a bright and sweet-natured girl, her namesake got married, and the de Chagnys have reluctantly accepted us and even thrown a few socially-strained birthday parties for their granddaughter. The nightmares stopped and I recovered- no, perhaps I'm misrepresenting myself.

I can't say I ever fully recovered. I don't go to masquerade balls, no matter how friendly the company or lavish the occasion. I prefer yellow roses to red, and will not have music boxes played in the house. Little things, nothing terribly eccentric. The only time we truly worried was when I attempted to play Anna in _Don Giovanni_.

I had always loved Mozart, and told myself I could do it. There was nothing I had to be afraid of at all. The actor playing the title role was an affable middle-aged baritone with a heavenly voice and a complete lack of acting talent. But then one rehearsal came, and I fell apart completely. You know the story- dressed in a mask and cloak, Giovanni invades Anna's room intent on ravishing her. She manages to free herself and raises such a cry that their roles change- she chases him down in the street to keep him from escaping punishment, while he flees.

He stood there before me, the same singer I had joked with backstage only a few hours ago. I reached out to accuse him and tear off his mask, when suddenly I felt my legs go weak. I was back performing _Don Juan Triumphant_, and I knew that when I pulled away the mask he would carry me off. I screamed and fell to the floor, and was in such a state that I had to be carried to a carriage and taken home. I made my understudy's career in much the same way Carlotta made mine, but I did not begrudge her success. I certainly couldn't have attended another rehearsal.

That is who I am- a singer, a mother, a wife, and a woman who may never truly be free of her ghosts. With what I have seen, perhaps even your arrival should not take me by surprise.


	6. Raoul's Narrative

_Raoul's Narrative_

It's hard to say where it all went wrong. Or perhaps it was never right to begin with- perhaps I merely realized it. You- she cried on our wedding night, but she had been through so much pain that I didn't question her, only tried to hold her in my arms and provide comfort. But it wasn't enough, and it would never be enough; once I had made grand promises to her on the roof of the opera house, and it was on our wedding night that I think I realized I wouldn't be able to fulfill them.

She was so melancholy in the days that followed, though always a gracious and loyal wife. At least I thought she was- she never gave me cause to suspect otherwise. I loved her and supposed she loved me in return, but I could not seem to reach her. Whether in lovemaking or simple conversation, she always seemed so far away from me, always preoccupied. I would find her sitting alone in her room, staring at the mirror; when I asked her why, she could never give me an answer.

You say your husband's parents forgave him? Mine didn't. My gambling started when I was cut off, and desperate for funds. I couldn't return to the Navy and leave behind a pregnant, unsupported wife, and cards seemed the only thing I had any head for. Our fortunes ebbed and flowed, and we were at times able to live quite comfortably. Other times we weren't so lucky.

Our son- her son- only seemed to make Christine more sorrowful. She hated him in the first few months, trying not to look at him even as he nursed. The mere act of holding him would be enough to make her cry, and I wondered if she had gone mad. She recovered in time, but in some ways I didn't. The boy seemed a good person to blame for my wife's poor spirits, and caring for him was a good excuse for us to sleep in separate bedrooms.

Once we knew her voice had been unharmed by pregnancy, Christine returned to the stage. I was determined to show that I could provide for us as well as she could, and my gambling grew worse. One of her jobs was in Coney Island, and that was what led me here. As you may have gathered from my ramblings, the Phantom turned out to be the one who had contracted us. Contracted her, at the least. The only deal made with me was a wager we made over whether she would sing, under the condition that if she did, I'd leave without her. If she didn't, he would pay.

I see you're about to attack me for it. Don't bother. There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't said to myself already. He had just told me that Gustave- our son- was his, and I'll admit to not thinking clearly. But once again, that's not much of an excuse.

When the curtain came up it was your voice I heard, not hers. I found myself in the Metropolitan Opera House, with no more explanation than you have. I'm starting to put together my own theory, though. This world seems calculated to drive home to me the many ways in which I've failed, and all the ways things could have been better. It's no more or less than I deserve.

And you'll forgive me if I started to wonder if I'm in hell.


	7. Chapter 7

By morning, Raoul and Christine were little closer to solving their mystery than they had been at the beginning of the night. After many tears and accusations of lying, both had run out of energy and collapsed, Christine upon the bed and Raoul upon a chair. When he opened his eyes, he immediately assumed everything had been a dream, brought on by brandy and guilt over his own poor decisions.

The fact that Christine was still in the room with him disabused him of that notion. Another twinge of guilt came at the fact that he felt some amount of relief.

Raoul stood and went over to his wife (no, he had to stop thinking of her as that.) He awakened her with a gentle touch upon the shoulder, and her expression went from calm affection to annoyance in a matter of seconds. (He supposed she had the same notion that everything had been a dream, and was far more angry than he about it not being so.)

"It's morning," he said. "I don't know if there's anything you had planned-"

"Oh, yes." Christine shook herself and stood up. "I have some ideas, but tea will help. My husband's clothes are in the cabinet; you may dress yourself and attempt to look respectable. I will be doing the same, and I'll thank you to leave the room while I change. You'll find the water closet to your left."

Raoul did as she commanded in something of a daze. It wasn't the first time he'd fallen asleep in his clothes and awoken with mussed hair and a headache. When Christine joined up with him again in the hall, she was carrying a newspaper.

"I believe I read of a woman who might help us," she said. "I'll have the governess take Marguerite to the museums today, and with luck we'll have this sorted out by the time they return."

"Your optimism astounds me."

"Well pardon me if I don't fancy thinking of myself as naught but a shadow in your personal Hell, Monsieur de Chagny. We've wasted enough time as it is; she's probably already up and dressed by now."

As if conjured up by Christine's mention of her, there came the voice of a young girl from the suite's main room.

"Father? Is that you?"

It was pure force of habit that caused Raoul to reply as he did.

"For God's sake, not _now_ child!"

Raoul had experienced many frightening things in his lifetime, not the least of which was to be hung in a noose while a monster prepared to do unspeakable things to his fiancee. But nothing in Raoul's life, from the Phantom to the specter of shady debt collectors, had prepared him for the expression on Christine's face at his outburst.

"I'm so sorry" he said in a more kindly manner. "I didn't mean to shout." He hurried into the next room, partly to make things better and partly to escape. He found a child with messy brown curls clutching a thin blue volume. A short, slender woman stood by her, attempting to fix a loose button on her dress.

"Now now, Mistress. I'm sure your father has a good deal to do."

"No," Raoul interjected, "it was my fault. I didn't get a good night's sleep, and I took it out on her. I am sorry."

Marguerite sighed as she allowed her governess to straighten her clothes.

"I only wanted to know if you'd finish reading to me We were in the middle of 'The Adventure of the Copper Beeches' when you had to leave for mother's performance."

Raoul smiled in spite of himself.

"Your mother and I do have things to accomplish today, but I don't see why we can't finish it. You like detective stories?"

"You know I do. I'm going to marry a detective when I grow up!"

Raoul laughed. "I don't imagine Holmes has an enormous salary to live on."

Marguerite shook her head.

"I'd rather marry Watson. Or perhaps I wouldn't marry either of them, and simply solve cases by myself. Won't you read to me?"

Raoul read to the girl with a mixture of affection and curious sorrow. So this was what a true child of his with Christine would have looked like! And this was the relationship they could have had. But no, that was being too kind to himself, too forgiving of his own failings. There was no reason why he couldn't have taken time to read and play with Gustave, only that he'd blamed the child for the change in his mother that wasn't truly his fault.

By the time the story was over, Christine had joined them.

"Marguerite, Simone is going to take you for an adventure today. Your father and I have some business to attend to, but we'll be back in the evening. I know we've been terribly busy on this trip, but if you're good we'll allow you to skip one piano lesson when we return home. Now, Raoul-"

She pulled him aside and showed him the paper.

"There's a spiritualist on Coney Island with a history of accurate insights who hasn't been caught falsifying anything. She's as good a place to start as any."

"Christine, we were fooled once by a man pretending to be a ghost. Surely you're not going to set us up to be fooled a second-"

Raoul stopped his tirade when he saw the name in the paper.

"What is it?"

"I've changed my mind. I'll be only too happy to pay a visit to Madame Fleck."


	8. Chapter 8

The carriage ride to Madame Fleck's found Raoul and Christine somewhat more relaxed in each other's presence than they had been in the night before, but only slightly. Raoul's head still swam with confusion, but at least they had a course of action. Some direction was better than none, even if it meant going to a woman he would normally have avoided with disgust.

When he spoke, it was of Marguerite.

"Am I- is he- a good father?"

Christine nodded.

"We both do our best for her, as does her godmother. I suppose in your world something horrible has happened to Meg as well?"

He thought of the fragile creature he saw in the bar, speaking so casually of suicide and loneliness, her ballet days far behind her.

"You could say that."

"I shouldn't have asked. I really don't want to know. Oh my poor, sweet Meg..."

Raoul considered saying that Meg wasn't quite so sweet anymore, but he at least had enough sense to keep his mouth shut on that account.

When they arrived at the address specified in the newspaper, his misgivings grew. Would Fleck be able to tell them anything at all? True, she may have had a counterpart in his life, but so did Christine, and she was as much in the dark as he was. Besides, he'd known Fleck as a carny, hardly a profession known for its trustworthiness. If she weren't the only lead he had to go on, he would have turned around then and there.

The apartment itself was modest and tasteful on the outside, with only a small sign advertising its spiritualist services. The inside, though, was everything Raoul had feared: garish hangings and rugs gave him the sense that he was back at the carnival, ready to be deceived once again. Perhaps some things never changed, even in between worlds.

A servant greeted them and they took their seat in the parlor. Raoul looked around at the others waiting with them- grieving widows or parents in search of false reassurances. Preying on the pockets of souls such as these was disgusting- but when had he known anyone associated with the Phantom to do differently? After all, wasn't that how the monster had wormed his way into Christine's confidence in the first place?

The first time, at least.

After what seemed like an endless awkward silence, they were ushered into another room. Strange- there were other waiting clients who had arrived before the de Chagnys. Did "Madame Fleck" prioritise her customers by their likely wealth? Well, he supposed he couldn't blame her much for it. Perhaps if he'd had as much business sense, he wouldn't have made such a mess of things back home.

The room where Fleck waited was dark, and Raoul looked about for a window or match of some kind. He distrusted the dark, for that was where all a spiritualist's deception could be practiced.

"I'm leaving if she tries to pull out ectoplasm," he whispered to Christine. Dark as it was, he could have sworn he saw her smile.

"I'll be at your heels if she does, believe me." After speaking, Christine turned her head towards the only available source of light- an iridescent crystal ball upon a table, near which sat their presumed hostess. All they could see of her was her small round face, illuminated as if by candlelight.

"Vicomte and vicomtesse de Chagny. How good to see you."

At the familiar sound of Fleck's voice, mockingly mysterious as always, Raoul strode forward and nearly knocked over the table in the dark.

"Fleck. You know us. May I presume you know what's going on?"

"Raoul-"

"I know this woman, Christine. She works- worked- for the Phantom."

The burgeoning argument was cut off by warm laughter from Fleck.

"So impatient, vicomte. How am I to assist you if you will not even tell me your troubles?"

Raoul hung his head.

"Forgive me. Perhaps you are as innocent in this matter as Christine. If no one else knows anything of my world, why should you?"

There was silence for a moment, and Raoul wondered if Fleck was about to dismiss them. Instead, he thought he saw her smile by the light of the crystal.

"Indeed, why should I? All I possess is a glass ball and my own conjectures. How about this for a transaction- you look into the crystal, and I'll do my best to offer theories. I promise, you will not be disappointed."

In lieu of any other options, Raoul peered into the crystal ball while Christine craned her neck behind him to do so as well. He didn't know what he expected to see, if anything at all, but his eyes grew wide at the images reflected. It couldn't be...

"Is that man...myself? And the woman with the pistol-"

"Dear god", cried Christine, "it's Meg!"


	9. Chapter 9

It was madly inappropriate and Christine might murder him for it, but Raoul couldn't suppress a horrified laugh

"Somehow, I'm not even surprised."

Christine whirled on him.

"You think this is a joke? That Meg would do violence to anyone?"

"Not the Meg you know, perhaps. The one I know is mad for love of the Phantom, even a fool could see it."

"I don't believe-"

Madame Fleck cleared her throat and the two turned back to her, somewhat abashed. She looked down at the crystal and the image had changed somewhat; now Raoul had possession of the pistol, and Meg was sobbing in his arms. There was another shape in the crystal as well, that of a child- Gustave? It was too hard to tell in such a small space.

"What you are seeing, Vicomte de Chagny, might be a nightmare- or it might be the truth. What would you say if I were to tell you that for every decision we make, every divergence on our path, there exists another world in which things took another turn?"

Raoul looked up at Madame Fleck, but was entirely at a loss for words. Christine appeared to be on the verge of tears, and- to his great surprise- she put her arms about him for comfort. How long had it been since Christine had done that, in this world or any other? For a moment he allowed himself to become lost in the feeling, her warmth and the smell of clean powder upon her skin-

But something had to be said, or the entire visit would have been pointless.

"Are you saying," he asked Madame Fleck, "that I exchanged places with another version of myself? That he's in my world now?"

"And doing a better job with your life than you are, if my crystal is to be believed."

Of course- whatever the world, she was still Fleck.

"What can be done?" whispered Christine. "Will I never see my husband again?"

"I don't see why not. These little world-slips happen every now and again, and right themselves just as suddenly and with as little explanation. There might be ways to hasten the process, of course, but that would require all parties to be willing. I have no doubt your husband wants to return to his world, but-"

She smiled at Raoul.

"Can this man say the same?"

Of course he couldn't, but what was he to say?

"I wouldn't want to live with a woman who prefers another," he said by way of assent, but Christine didn't seem reassured. And why should she, when the situation he described could speak to either world?

"I would suggest, sir and madam, that you make such decisions on your own. If you have the afternoon free, explore yourselves. Think on who you are, and whom you love. And give me time to see the grieving widows who allow me to pay rent. Off you go!"


End file.
